20. Dante

TWENTY

Dante

Something happened last night with Tristan. I don't understand it. I don't know if I like it. I liked it at the time. It felt really fucking good to have him with me. He didn't push me. He was just there . Even when I had a kind of bad moment, he let me deal with it in my own way.

I don't even know what possessed me to let him drag his hand down my stomach. I knew where he was going with it. I knew I couldn't handle it. But, fuck, I wanted to be able to handle it. For some goddamn reason, I wanted to have him touch me. It wasn't even sexual. I just wanted … fuck, I don't even know. It's so fucking confusing. He confuses me.

Because it feels really fucking nice when he's around, and I don't know what to think about that.

And that's what has me walking into Lush tonight. I use the main entrance because I want Tristan to see me. He does, instantly. I've barely set foot inside and his eyes are arrowing across the room to me.

I fucking love it.

I descend from the mezzanine to the main floor. Rafael is playing the piano. He's brilliant. He could've been a professional. Maybe if so much shit hadn't happened to him, he would've been. Instead, he runs an upscale sex club and fucks his way into oblivion. We all have our coping mechanisms.

And even if he and I are sometimes ready to kill each other, we need each other too. No one understands me like Rafael. Not even Noah.

Tristan never could, and I don't really want him to.

But I do like when he looks at me like that. Like he's forgotten everything else around him. In fact, he sets down the drink he was mixing, ignores Saylor's question, and leaves the bar to walk straight toward me. He's totally broken character. He never does that, not at work.

But here he is, practically storming my way. Only my narrowed eyes stop him from grabbing at me.

"What are you doing here?" he demands. "You're supposed to be resting."

I'm not going to argue with him in front of Rafael, so I lean down, nip his ear, and say, "Go to the lounge."

"Dante—"

"Now, Tristan."

He huffs. He glares at me. Then he does what I told him. I stop at the bar first. When Tristan is gone, I say to Saylor, "He's taking a break."

"Apparently."

"Don't blame him."

"I don't."

With that settled, I slip behind the bar to the lounge, where Tristan is pacing.

"I read about concussions," he says. "You're supposed to be resting."

"It's not as bad as it looks."

"I hope not. Your face is a mess."

Yeah, I know. "It's fine."

"It's not fine! What the hell happened? And don't tell me not to ask. How the hell am I supposed to not ask about something like that?"

Normally at a time like this, I would physically subdue him. He would fight then he'd relent. It's what I should do. It's what works. It's what puts us in the right context.

So I don't know why the hell I go sit on the couch and say, "Come here."

Maybe it's the concussion fucking up my brain. Or maybe it's that I really like when Tristan walks over to me with his arms crossed, sulky but obedient. I fucking love that when I motion him toward me, he sits on my lap. He does it by straddling me in a sort of kneeling position, with his legs on either side of me. His hands settle on my shoulders. He scowls at me.

I ask, "Why are you so upset about this?"

"Why do you think? Somebody hurt you and you won't tell me what happened."

"I have several stab wounds from you, you know. Why do you care so much about this?"

"That's different."

"Not really."

"So you got hit in the hit and kicked in the stomach by someone you were fucking?"

I narrow my eyes.

He shrugs, getting pissy. "Nothing in the contract prevents either of us from fucking other people."

"It's implied," I grit out, not liking this conversation.

"Nothing in the contract is implied. Isn't that the point you've made to me again and again? You can do anything that's not explicitly forbidden."

Something dark and dangerous unfurls inside me. "If I find out you're fucking anyone else, you will not like the consequences."

"What about you?"

I'm starting to get irritated. "I'm not fucking anyone else. Where the hell is this coming from?"

"Never mind."

He starts to get up, but that's not fucking happening. I wrestle him back down onto my lap—and he bites my neck. My dick hardens the instant his teeth clamp onto me, but I can't allow it, of course. I twist and pin him down on the couch.

"Why did you call Rafael last night?" he asks, fingers digging into my traps.

"He's an—"

"Old friend. Sure. That's what he said. He's obviously more than that. Is that his piano in your penthouse? He plays. You don't."

Fuck, he's smart. "Yes. It's his."

"Have you fucked him?"

"Not exactly."

"What the hell does that mean? Why can't you just say—"

"It's none of your goddamn business, Tristan."

"Just like whatever happened to your face is none of my goddamn business?"

"Yes. Exactly like that. What the fuck is going on here?"

I say it like it's all his fault. I clamp my hand on his throat like he's the one who needs to be gotten under control. And yet, I'm the one who leans down. It's my lips that almost, almost, almost brush his.

My heart is hammering. I have no fucking clue why I want to kiss him. I did once, on the side of his head. I couldn't fucking believe it when I did that, but it felt good. But this is something else entirely.

His lips part. I can feel his breath against my mouth.

I press my lips to his. It's just touch, not even a kiss. I wait for it to repulse me. I wait for nausea, anger, disgust. I don't know why it doesn't happen.

I take his lower lip between my teeth. He makes a little whining sound and shifts under me. His hard cock presses into my hip.

I nibble at his lip. He arches.

Then I absolutely devour him.

I slot my mouth against his. I bite and nibble and suck. I sweep my tongue into his mouth.

Tristan moans and lifts against me. He takes every hungry swipe of my tongue. His tongue strokes mine in return, and it has me grinding into him through our clothes.

His hands grip my sides as he draws himself up against me. It's not against the rules, but it still makes me pause for a second. He doesn't usually touch me very much. Sometimes because he's bound. Usually because I don't encourage it.

But this …

He tugs at me, and I grind against him again. I devour him again. I slide a hand under his ass and angle him against me.

Then I hear someone in the doorway. I break the kiss to look over at Rafael. He's leaning against the doorframe like he's been there for a while. He looks both intrigued and irritated. He knows I don't do this.

"What the fuck do you want?" I growl.

A dark eyebrow lifts in his handsome face. "You are in my lounge, you know, mouth-fucking my employee while he's on the clock."

Tristan shifts under me like he's going to get up. I still him with my body and a deep, warning sound in my throat. He settles under me.

I send Rafael my most dangerous look. His eyes flash in response. He's dangerous too. This is why we almost killed each other the one time we sort of fucked. Well … one of the reasons. There are a hundred others. When we start fucking with each other, way too much shit gets stirred up.

That's why, before Tristan, I didn't spend all that much time at Lush. Rafael and I are forever connected and I would help him with anything, as he would help me, but we kind of hate each other too. Partly because, when we're together, the past is too present.

Partly because of Noah.

I hate Rafael because when Noah destroyed the Society and got us out of hell, Rafael got to stay with him. I went back to my parents.

Rafael hates me because when I turned eighteen, Noah shifted his focus to me, hoping it wasn't too late.

Rafael's gaze runs down my and Tristan's bodies. His eyes shutter. He's always been a bit of a voyeur.

"Noah's here," he says.

Shit. "You fucking daddy's boy. You told him."

Rafael shrugs. "You have your rules. I have mine."

I really, really hate being interrupted, but I have no choice but to draw away from Tristan. Rafael is not going away—and neither is Noah. Tristan sits up, looking between me and Rafael with wide eyes. But as I straighten my clothes and head toward Rafael, I catch Rafael smirking at Tristan.

I don't fucking like that, so I slam Rafael into the wall. Because he's fucking crazy, he laughs. He's also a masochist, so he probably likes it. But maybe not from me. His laugh takes on a sharp edge.

Definitely not from me.

But he's not the one I'm focused on right now. I glance back at Tristan and find his eyes narrowed on me. Me and Rafael. Tristan is jealous. I didn't expect that. I don't know how I feel about it. Annoyed? Yeah, a bit, but also kind of … satisfied.

The thing is … Rafael is also jealous. He's very prone to it. Always has been. Even when we were in hell, he wanted the attention. He hated it and hated, hated, hated the men, but he also hated when they didn't pick him. So even though Rafael doesn't want me, he doesn't seem to like seeing me with Tristan.

He didn't mind at first, but he's starting to. But that's his problem. I shove back from Rafael and wait for him to precede me. I need to be between him and Tristan. I shouldn't have trusted Rafael with Tristan last night. Something happened.

I'll have to deal with it later. Right now, I need to deal with Noah.

Rafael and I take the private elevator up to his penthouse. His kitchen is basically a bar, and his living room is basically a piano studio. I don't know how many pianos he has. The one at my place has been there for six years. He used to come over more often. Then we sort of fucked and it went poorly. Now we're more careful.

Noah is sitting at Rafael's island/bar. He's wearing his usual worn-out jeans and flannel shirt and looks exactly like the burned-out former FBI agent that he is. He's fit but looks older than his fifty-four years. Too much stress. Too much loss. Too much fucking alcohol.

"Christ, Dante," he says as he gets a good look at my face.

I want to kill Rafael right now.

"Don't glare at him," Noah says, policing us up like we're still teenagers. "He's looking out for you."

I disagree. I think he's being a dick. But I stop looking at him as he goes into the kitchen and starts making a drink.

I sit on the stool that Noah shoves my way with his foot.

Noah reminds me, "When I agreed to let you wage your agonizingly drawn-out war against Capelli, you made me a promise."

"I know."

"You promised that you could handle it. That you had the self-control for it."

"I do."

He regards me steadily. It's very familiar, that assessing look from Noah. There's never judgment in it, but there's way too much insight.

He says, "You did then. You don't now."

"Bullshit. Nothing's fucking changed—"

"Tell me about Tristan."

What the fuck is this? "Tristan has nothing to do with it!"

Noah isn't the least bit unsettled by my anger. He's seen a lot worse. In the early days, when he was bigger than me, he put me on the ground more than once. He had to.

Noah reminds me, "You gave him my number."

"For emergencies ."

"He called me."

"Because he was being an ass."

"No, he called me because you moved him in with you against his will."

"And I got him his own apartment, like you fucking insisted. And he's barely set foot in it. Because he didn't fucking want it."

"Why did you move him in with you? You've never done that before."

"So you're here to bust my ass about Tristan?"

"I'm trying to understand what's going on with you. You're losing control."

"Tristan has nothing to do with what happened with Capelli's crew! If you want to bust my ass about that, fine, but fucking leave Tristan out of this."

"You were kissing him," Rafael puts in as he pours a drink. I slap it off the counter, all too happy to unleash my aggression on him.

"What's your fucking problem, Rafael? And what did you say to him last night?"

"It's not going to work, Dante. You know it isn't. Cut him loose. He's getting attached."

"Fuck you!"

"Dante! Rafael!" Noah barks. "Both of you, back the fuck down!"

I don't realize I'm on my feet until Noah's in my face. Usually, I chill the hell out when Noah does this. Usually, I yield to him.

Tonight, I can't.

Noah goes calm as I stand there, fists clenched, breathing like a fucking animal. It's a little too familiar. How many times did I explode before Noah taught me how to calm down, how to channel my rage into something a little less evil?

I don't want to tell him the truth, which is that I didn't get enough satisfaction from killing murderers and abusers. I didn't feel enough of a release. I need to destroy the people who destroyed me. I can't find most of them, all the rich men of the Society who used to visit the Island where all of us boys were kept. But I can find Capelli, who sold me into it, and it keeps me calm, knowing I'm destroying him bit by bit.

But there's another truth, which Noah clearly senses. I am struggling, and, yes, it's because of Tristan. Because he's making feel things that I don't know how to feel. And he's making me want things that I don't know how to want.

I cannot, I will not , tell Noah that—because I don't want to hear Noah say that I should end things with Tristan. I wouldn't do it, but I can't hear that, not from him—because I trust him. Because I would believe him.

So instead I say, "You know what, Noah? Stay the fuck out of my life. I don't fucking need you anymore. So there you go, Rafael. Daddy's all yours."

Noah calls after me as I stalk toward the elevator. "Dante!"

But I'm gone. I'm long fucking gone even before the elevator doors close.